Page 6

Anya hadn’t dated anyone since landing on the island. She was too beautiful not to have been asked, which led me to believe she wasn’t interested.

Zach stomped his feet, calling out his hello just as I finished my chore.Predictable.

“Hey.” I extended my nod to include our friend Lee and Clay, the park ranger who’d answered the call with us this morning.

Lee dipped his chin in greeting. I could never figure out how the reclusive author and my very unserious brother became friends, but they’d been close since we were kids, making Lee almost like another brother to me.

I shook hands with Clay, hardly recognizing him out of his park ranger uniform. Without his hat, his long blond hair curled, making him look younger and less authoritative. “Good to see you again.”

“Something smells good.” Zach grinned at Anya. “Must be you.”

I bristled, gritting my teeth.

She laughed easily. “Spaghetti Bolognese is on the menu. And on the stove. I’m afraid it’s the allure of bacon you smell, not me.”

He clutched at his chest, charming grin spreading across his face. “Don’t go bacon my heart, Anya.”

“Zach, knock it off and let her cook,” I barked, immediately regretting my words when Anya flinched. She could speak up for herself. Already had. Shame-faced, I shook my head in a silent apology. “Sorry. We’ll get out of your way, Anya.”

Lucy and Violet arrived, each carrying a loaf of bread. They shed their jackets and shoes at the door, the commotion of their arrival saving me from the awkward pause that followed my outburst.

Lucy Millen looked like Violet’s dark shadow. Perpetually clad in black, she’d embraced the stereotype of the antisocial artist when she moved to town. Violet’s colorful wardrobe reminded me of Gran. But saying that aloud was a one-way ticket to her shit list. My sister attracted all sorts, collecting island oddballs like a beachcomber picked up shells.

“Can I get anyone something to drink?” Violet asked.

Zach helped her pull sodas from the fridge and fill glasses with water. It gave him another excuse to loiter around Anya. He complimented her again about how good dinner smelled. A muscle ticked in my jaw. I had no business getting annoyed with Zach. He was doing what he always did: laying on the charmwith an attractive woman. He obviously had no reservations about flirting with our sister’s roommate.

I approached Anya at the stove. Almost meditatively, she stirred a large pot of sauce. It smelled heavenly. Rosemary and bacon, with a top note of tomato.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked Anya, voice dropped low so as not to interrupt the conversation in the living room.

She flinched, and I regretted trying to be subtle. I didn’t mean to startle her. She smiled, as if to paper over the moment of skittishness.

“Thanks, Drew, but I grabbed a glass earlier. Lucky for you, I could use a taste-tester.” She shifted to the side, holding her spoon over the pot. “Want to try the sauce? Tell me if it needs anything?”

I edged closer, keenly aware of her hip brushing mine. Gently, I guided her wrist, bringing the spoon toward my lips. My eyes locked on hers as I blew softly over the steaming bite. Holding as I took a taste.

Rich flavor burst across my tongue. Delicious. Instinctively, my focus dipped to her mouth.

Lips slightly open, soft and welcoming, she tempted me to steal another taste. But something flickered in her eyes. Fear? Desire? Either way, it wasn’t an invitation.

She remained frozen in place as I pulled back. Awkwardly, I shoved my hands in my back pockets.

“It’s perfect.” My voice sounded raw, the truth ripped from me.

Shewas perfect.

Anya must have picked up on my second meaning. Like a still painting springing to life, she shifted, avoiding my gaze as she cleared her throat. “If you want to help, maybe you can grab the loaves of bread and slice them down the middle?”

We worked in companionable silence. Preparing the bread only took a few minutes. Anya dropped the pasta into the boiling water.

Rae arrived, slipping out of her jacket and joining the rest of our group in the living room after greeting me and Anya.

“Let’s eat,” Anya called as I pulled the bubbling bread from the oven. The butter and parmesan had mixed into a golden-brown crust. The kitchen swirled with the scents of garlic and rosemary, and my stomach rumbled. In my rush to finish work for the day, I’d forgotten lunch.

Everyone filtered into the kitchen, grabbing plates and dishing up in a matter of minutes.

“The cook doesn’t go last.” I handed Anya a plate, the brush of our fingers making me aware of how close we stood in the tiny kitchen. Clearing my throat, I stepped away, gesturing toward the stove. “After you.”